The exchange week

Week, I’m going to take you back to the shop in exchange for another one.

In the depths of the night, quietly, stealthily, a small child steals on padded feet into the warmth of a mother’s bed. She snuggles. A second tangle of blonde hair arrives, nestles, and barks like a seal beside the mummy meat in the girl sandwich. There is water, there is panadol, there is a semblance of sleep.

It’s morning. Rays of filtered grey light finger through the slits in the blinds. The thumberlina child dances awake, whirling like a dervish, spinning on the sheets, before beginning to cough, and like the exorcist, a lava of vomit spills forth from her rosebud lips. The dog is awake now.

Dolly was sick, sick, sick, so she lay on the bathroom floor until the nausea passed.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, there is a Man. Man drinks a whisky drink, he drinks a vodka drink. He drinks a lager drink, he drinks a cider drink. (Does this sound like a song? It is.) He’s in a blues bar, in Chicago. He is jetlagged, but calm. He phones home (does this sound like a movie? It is). He wonders why things look a bit tense over facetime when he calls from the bar to share the music. It is WONDERFUL music. I’m glad to hear it.  I’m going to be a blues singer when I grow up.

It’s afternoon. Someone should tell the car that smoking is bad for your health. It can cause cancer and birth defects. It also smells terrible. We climb out. The tall one is tired. So, so, tired. And flushed. She drags her body to bed. I worry. She wheezes.

It’s morning. It’s the clutch. It’s $2000. The tall one has high ketones, normal blood sugar, and is really wheezing. I call the hospital, for the paediatric endocrinologist that manages her diabetes. She wants her to drink and eat. The tall one is too tired. I convince her, and the numbers settle slightly.

In Manland, the Chicago Bulls are playing. The Man is watching. The Man has won an International POPAI Award for his designs, and is attending the awards and a trade show. I am very proud. Next week the Man will be mingling with the locals in Shenzhen while he oversees his production run. I hear bird flu has made a comeback in the eastern provinces of China. I hope he does not come home laying eggs.

At the doctor, the tall one is given ventolin to help ease her breathing, and antibiotics for her respiratory tract infection. She hopes we can manage it at home. I do too. Ants fall in my hair. From a tree? They bite me. The tall one swats them off. I lose half the broken key from our borrowed car. The part that starts the car. I scrabble around in the street. I find it. This is my lucky day. (Does this sound like a horse? It is.)

Does this look like a key to you? Yeah, nah. I call B*&shit on your self-description of ‘KEY’.


I am thankful this Thursday there is a persimmon growing on my tree. I guess we’re meant to be thankful for stuff on Thursdays because there’s a ‘th’ in both ‘thankful’ and ‘Thursday’. Personally, I find persimmons revolting, but some people like them. And they are an interesting colour. I’m reaching here, ok? And unless someone can watch my sick daughter while I be thankful for scotch, this persimmon will have to do for now.

Here. Have a persimmon. I don’t want it.